


Gary and The Opera

by Mafief



Series: The Marylebone Monthly Illustrated [16]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Gen, human customs from a grasshopper's perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 02:30:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15233388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mafief/pseuds/Mafief
Summary: Gary does not understand the ending of the opera.





	Gary and The Opera

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the Small_Hobbit for creating this world and letting me play in it.

After my debacle of writing on Watson’s manuscripts, he provided me with blank sheets of parchment ripe for me to write my plentiful and bold adventures here in Baker Street. The rich and dark ink coated my colourful and powerful hindlegs and I began transcribing my ever-racing thoughts. We wrote together that morning writing - him with his pen and I hopping along with my feet. My retelling of Ferret’s latest endeavours was thoroughly interesting, but I found myself distracted.

“Are you ok?” asked Watson. “You were quiet after the concert last night. Did you not enjoy it?”

I sat down and began to clean my feet on a bit of cotton batting. “The lady in purple?” 

“The soprano,” Watson provided. 

“Her singing was not my style. The string instruments were the most outstanding and by far my favourite.” I picked up one of my feet to examine it closely to see if I had missed any ink. “The whole affair was very sad. If I had known it would end as it did, I would not have come.”

“The opera was a comedy; it ended happily.”

“No, no, the violin players. The soprano I understand; the string musicians, I do not. They played mightily, like they were well a rehearsed choir of song birds. Maybe the song birds would be jealous. But, no matter how well they played, no one approached them.”

Watson pressed the page to the blotting paper. “Why would someone approach them?”

I switched legs, and continued my examination. “Isn’t that the point?” 

Watson sat back and looked confused. How do humans not know these things? I decided it was best to continue since this concept seemed foreign to him. “You play, pouring your soul into the very instrument hoping to win the affection of another. It’s a magical moment when the one who is attracted to your song materializes out of the mist and finds you.” I sighed, remembering the times when this happened to my family back in the meadow.

“You don’t play for fun?”

“We practice our wings off with the goal of finding a beloved. I can see why the string players were so unhappy afterwards - no beloveds were attracted to them. This was worse than I thought.” I stomped my foot to the desk as hard as I had ever, and stood up to my fullest height. “These poor musicians play every night, only to fail each time night, each week, each month, each year! Oh, I will march down – no, I will have Ferret take me down, and tell them that they must play more from the hearts.” I did not know at the time that humans only had one heart. 

I started to crawl to the precipice of the desk and gathered enough courage to hop before Watson caught me. “No, no, that is not necessary. These musicians were not consciously playing to find a mate – er, a beloved. They were playing because it is their profession.”

Watson tried to explain and I did not understand. The human culture is very strange. He placed me on the window ledge. I watched the humans below and wondered how humans find their beloveds.

I was caught up in my musings when Watson asked. “Have you ever met her?

“Me? No, but she will know me by my song and be able to find me when I play. When I finish healing, I will begin practicing again so I am ready.”


End file.
